


The Battlefield is no Place for a Confession

by Nintendraw



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), minor blood and gore as befits the setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 11:39:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21098867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nintendraw/pseuds/Nintendraw
Summary: Such tender words ill befit the bloodstained battlefield, the land of murder where words died and actions reigned. If Caspar had his way, he would sweep Linhardt off his feet and spirit them both away from this horror and bloodshed, would stage his confession over a fire-grilled feast of his own design, saying the words whilst threading upon his finger the symbol of his care. But such is not the will of the universe, and when caught off-guard, he... flounders.





	The Battlefield is no Place for a Confession

**Author's Note:**

> From a Tumblr ask I received on my Caspar RP blog (@hotheadhero), which I took entirely too long to reply to orz. The sender wanted me to write about the first time Caspar fell in love. This might be more a (clumsy) first confession than a first love moment per se, but still! Also, boy did this thing snowball. It's quite possibly the longest thing I’ve posted on that blog to date.
> 
> (Also, I am terrible with titles sometimes. Nothing else jumped out at me.)

“Heh… I really got myself good there, didn’t I?”

“Hush, Caspar; you’re in no state to talk right now.”

Reluctantly, the man obeyed, relaxing comfortably yet not into Linhardt’s one-armed embrace. Perhaps he should get comfortable; this wound wasn’t one his friend could heal away quickly; but a sharp pain in his side convinced him otherwise, stabbed him with a force too strong for mere memory; and with a stifled groan that sounded more like a whimper, he simply fell straight back against the other’s arm.

Stabbed. By the point of his own axe, no less. Careless to take his eyes off it while disarmed, scrambling for another weapon like a fool instead of simply nailing his foe in the unarmed solar plexus first with his equally unarmed hand.

The Crest of Cethleann glowed faintly over the ravages of his upper abdominal wall, not quite hiding the mess that knit itself back together far too slowly under his gaze. Caspar averted his eyes. All these years later, and he _still_ couldn’t get used to the sight of white magic at work. Even seeing Hubert eviscerating enemies on the battlefield wasn’t as gruesome as this somehow, and he _knew_ the cold organometallic bite of dark magic skittering up his spine, _knew_ the feel of the malevolent aura oozing off Those Who Slithered in the Dark or that black, twisted fiend of his worst nightmares who turned soulless eyes on him from a chillingly familiar visage. Perhaps it was simply that those scenes were more transient, more easily distanced; whereas lying here in their impromptu infirmary, entrails bared for all to see, he felt more acutely his vulnerability, his helplessness. His mortality.

_Linhardt’s_ mortality.

Caspar knew full well how much Linhardt hated being on the front lines, hated drawing blood even in the most abject cases of self-defense. Back in their academy days, he’d been one of the first students to master Physic magic for that very reason. That was why Caspar promised he’d fight on the front lines in his stead, take every hit aimed Linhardt’s way so he didn’t have to. But now…

“You’re a real fool, you know that?” The fern-haired man’s words were accompanied with a long-suffering sigh. “You could have died, reopening that wound—_and_ getting stabbed in it again…”

“Sorry.” Caspar wanted to say more, but a hacking cough stole his words away. Something inside his wound trembled with the effort, and his stomach roiled. It was all he could do to keep from retching. However many of his foes’ internal organs he saw when he laid his axe into them, he couldn’t stand seeing his own, or even letting his best friend see them. It shouldn’t bother him anymore; Linhardt probably knew the internal lay of his body as well or better than he by now… but still. He knew how helpless it made others. Hated how helpless it made him.

Predictably, Linhardt noticed his flinch (how could he not when they were this close?), and his eyes widened in concern. “Are you alright, Caspar?”

“Just… hurry up with that, would you? This can’t be any easier for you either.”

A tense but comfortable silence settled over the two as Linhardt worked his magic and Caspar forced back his momentary bile. A moment passed, and another, before he felt steady enough to look up again.

“Say, Linhardt. Why do you keep doing this?”

“Whatever do you mean?” The warms pulses of light magic stilled for a moment as his friend looked at him, affronted.

“This.” He gestured vaguely at the scene beyond the tent. Far in the distance, shouts still echoed across the bloodstained plains, and mere meters from their encampment lay shallow trenches filled with the newly deceased. “You hate blood. Hate fighting. I asked you once if you’d rather we ran away from it all. Just you and me, far from all this.” Inquisitive eyes dimmed as Caspar flicked his gaze downwards away from Linhardt and promptly thought better of it. “Maybe it’d have been better that way,” he mumbled, so quietly it might as well have been to himself. “Then you wouldn’t have to force it on yourself if I got hurt…”

“You’re not forcing anything on me,” Linhardt protested. “I’ve been taking care of you since we were children. Why would that change because of some silly war?”

The robin-haired man immediately opened his mouth to protest, but Linhardt silenced him with a squeeze to his shoulder. Reluctantly, Caspar subsided; but his friend didn’t seem inclined to respond, instead narrowing his eyes on his abdominal wound, the fascia only now beginning to repair. He could only wait so long before trying again; but Linhardt anticipated this too and began talking, cutting off his response.

“Remember when you promised you’d always fight right in front of me so I never had to take a blow myself?” he asked. His gaze did not move from the steady repair line advancing towards Caspar’s broken lower ribs, his voice taking on the same airy quality it did when he was simply repeating his thoughts aloud. “Maybe I simply found something equally worth protecting.”

“You… you did?” His voice dropped to an uncharacteristic (but still decently loud) whisper. Dare he hope that something was what he thought it was?

“Come, now. Are you really going to make me say it? It’s _you_.” Linhardt paused in his efforts to trace a line down Caspar’s exposed sternum. “I can hardly leave you to do all the hard work _for_ me; and besides, you have so much worth protecting. You’re optimistic; you’re honest; you’re hardworking; you always lend me an ear or shoulder even if you’re not interested in everything I have to say or would rather be doing something else; you always know what to say even so…” A smirk. “And you’re always so good about getting me up in the morning and fired up, even when I least expect it. What’s not to like?”

Caspar could feel his ears turning red, and he wasn’t entirely sure if it was just the way Linhardt was touching his chest. Normally, he didn’t have a problem with it; sometimes these things were necessary for white magic to work; but he didn’t see Linhardt’s crest anywhere between fingertips and skin, and this felt a touch more intimate than he was used to. But there was something more to it, an internal heat of sorts…

Was he… reciprocating?

“B- But none of those require us to be _here_, in the thick of it all,” he hedged, in an attempt to distract himself. “You could have all that even if we’d run away. And besides, isn’t fighting this war keeping you from doing all that napping and researching you keep talking about?”

Linhardt snorted, but the sound was gentle. “You’d never rest if you knew someone else was out there fighting for justice and you weren’t right there fighting at their side.”

_And wherever you go, I’ll be right there with you,_ said the featherlight touch of his fingers as he lifted them away. _Always._

… If his cheeks weren’t red before, they certainly were now. Th eloquent smile on Linhardt’s face that said he knew exactly where his friend’s thoughts had gone didn’t help matters _at all_.

“… Hoo boy,” he laughed feebly. “I dunno what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that. Now I’m all flustered. Got all these emotions inside, and now I don’t know what to do with them.”

The fern-haired man laughed softly. “Just let them out, Caspar,” he advised simply. “Isn’t that what you always do, anyways?”

“Yeah, but—This isn’t the kind of thing you just _spring_ on people, you know! All this time I’ve been waiting for you to say something, waiting for a perfect moment to tell you, and I—!”

Abruptly, he fell silent, eyes wide, cheeks red and puffed like they had been when they were children and Linhardt and caught him with his hand in the cookie jar in the imperial pantry in Enbarr. It didn’t last long. “Isn’t this the point where you tell me to stop yelling or I’ll reopen my wound?” he demanded. Anything to distract him from the wild tumult of his thoughts right now.

“No—your wound is mostly healed now, though you will have to be careful not getting the same site injured again. There’s only so much scar tissue my magic can keep back. But I’m quite curious now: What is it you’ve been waiting so long to tell me, Caspar?”

_I love you?_ Such tender words ill befit this bloody battlefield, this land of murder where words died beneath axe and lance. If Caspar had his way, he would sweep Linhardt off his feet and smite all their foes with a single strike of the axe, would spirit them away from this horror and even lay down his head on the executioner’s block if it meant Linhardt may live happily. Actually, if he had his way _off_ the battlefield, he would tell him this over a fire-grilled feast of his own design, say the words whilst threading upon his finger the symbol of his care. Linhardt was his best friend, but he was so much more than that. His teacher, his adviser, the first to extend a helping hand when he was most laid low. This and more he would pour out to him when the time was right; but now was not that time. But if not now, then when? The war was not yet won, the dream their leader sought not yet realized. Either one of them could die tomorrow; and if it was him, then Linhardt would never hear for himself how much he meant to him. Besides, Linhardt was asking _now_—so why not say something _now_ and spare them both the uncertainty? Even so, the words tangled on his tongue, foreign as the magical tenets the professor had imposed on him during a week of Faith training… Caspar frowned. This really shouldn’t be so hard. Maybe if he focused on something else—

“Earth to Caspar? Are you there?” Linhardt was waving a hand in front of his face, his own hovering mere inches away. “You’ve gone awfully quiet; what’s going on?”

“Wah! Linhardt! Ha- Have I ever told you you have really pretty eyelashes?”

“I—What?” The other man seemed taken aback, as he well should be. Not even Caspar knew where those words had come from. He’d tried to flinch away from him in embarrassment, but his efforts were in vain; his friend held him too fast. (He’d always been the one to hold him back from some ill-advised fight back then…)

They hung like this for several moments, Linhardt’s wide teal eyes reflected in Caspar’s robin blues, before Linhardt sighed again; but his sigh was one of bemusement not exasperation, and a faint blush colored his cheeks, no less red than Caspar’s own. “You’ve been thinking too hard,” he remarked. “Your brain must have short-circuited. We’ll pick this up another time.” Slipping his leg out from under his friend, he stood and stretched. “Make sure to sweep me off my feet when we do, Caspar,” he advised. “I’ll be waiting.”

As he walked away, Caspar could only stare after him, flabbergasted. How did Linhardt always manage to read his mind like that? He traced the path Linhardt’s fingers had taken on his skin, a remembering flush tinging his cheeks even though the other had already departed. He curled his fingers into a fist, right over the heart Linhardt had mended, so close to where his enemy’s stolen axe had gotten him that day.

_I promise, Linhardt. And when the time comes, I’ll tell you everything._


End file.
